Chapter 38: Len

Johnny woke abruptly as the truck's engine cut out. He opened his eyes to see that they were parked on the street in front of their house—the glazier's truck was still in the driveway, right next to the Rover.

Johnny looked over to Mike. "Hey," he said. "Sorry I slept the whole way."

"No problem," Mike replied, picking the books up off the seat. "It's almost three—you wanna go back to bed and sleep till dinner?"

"Nah—I think I might be able to actually stay awake for the rest of the day. C'mon—let's go see our new window."

They got out of the car. The new window was in place, and the glazier was just cleaning up from the job. The house finally looked the way it had before Staib and Torrelli had started their campaign to make life difficult for Mike and Johnny.

"Looks great," Mike said to the workers. "Thanks for fitting us in today."

"No problem," said the guy in charge. "How'd that happen, anyhow? It's pretty hard to break one of these accidentally."

"Two guys with a grudge and a hammer," Mike said dryly.

"Shit," said the worker. "Any chance the cops'll get them?"

"They already have. Sheriff's department did a great job. Plus, Mrs. Daniels, who let you in this morning—she saw the vandals at work, and got a partial plate number."

"Huh," the man said, closing his toolbox. "Well—we're off to our next job. I'll send you a bill; maybe insurance will cover it."

"We'll see—thanks again," Mike said.

"You're welcome." The two workmen got in their truck and drove off.

As Mike and Johnny walked into the house, the phone began to ring.

"Mine," Johnny said, recognizing the ring as belonging to his phone line. "I'll get it."

"Hello?"

"Mr. Gage? It's Detective DeVito."

"Oh—hi."

"I just got back from the arraignment, and wanted to fill you in on what happened."

"Hang on—let me get Mike on the extension."

Mike, who had been listening to the local end of the conversation, gave Johnny a "thumbs up" and trotted to the bedroom to pick up the extension.

"I'm on the line now," Mike said.

"So here's the news. Torrelli's arraignment was first, since he'd been in custody longest. He pleaded 'not guilty' to all charges."

"Shit," Johnny said angrily. "Does he seriously think he can get away with this crap?"

"You'd be surprised what some people can delude themselves into thinking, but hang on a second; there's more. Staib pleaded nolo contendere to all the charges, which means his lawyer is going to try to make a deal with the D.A."

"Is that a plea bargain?" Johnny asked.

"Exactly—and one thing that's likely to happen is that Staib will offer to testify against Torrelli as a piece of his part of the deal. Because of that, it's not out of the question that Torrelli's lawyer would advise him to change his plea."

"He'd plead guilty," Johnny asked, "so he'd get a lower sentence or something?"

"No, he'd probably do just what Staib did—plead no contest and make a deal with the DA."

"So what you're saying is, this could still all get done and over with without a trial?" Mike asked.

"It's possible," DeVito said. "If I were Torrelli's lawyer, I'd be trying to convince him to change his plea as we speak."

"When would we know?" Mike asked.

"That's the unfortunate part. Torrelli has up till the date of the trial to change his plea, and the trial was set for ten weeks from now."

Mike felt like he could hear Johnny's heart plummeting to the floor.

"Ten weeks?" Johnny said. "That's forever!"

"It's actually incredibly soon. It's often twice that long."

"Well, keep us posted," Mike said. "And thanks for everything."

"You're welcome," DeVito said. "I'll be in touch if anything changes."

Mike hung up the bedroom extension and went back to the living room. Johnny was sitting on the couch, with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Mike sat down next to him, and Johnny reached over and took his hand.

"I can't stand this, Mike. I mean, if there's a trial, well, that's the two of us, forcibly outed to the world by our legal system. And if there's not, then these guys probably walk away with some bullshit sentence, and kind of get away with it." Johnny sighed heavily. "We might as well just start packing if there's gonna be a trial."

"How so?" Mike asked.

"No matter what anyone says, I don't believe for a second that if there's a trial, the whole world isn't gonna know about us. And if they do—well, do you think the Fire Department is gonna make any efforts to keep us around? I doubt it. I bet there's plenty of others who feel just like Staib, but aren't dumb enough or mean enough to actually do anything about it."

Mike just sat next to Johnny for a couple minutes, not sure what to say. He settled for honesty.

"I don't think we should start packing just yet—let's wait to see what happens. You're probably right about one thing: if there's a trial, then our little 'open secret' becomes a lot more open, and a lot less secret."

"Yeah," Johnny said bitterly, "and then we're history. They'd find some way to get rid of us, I'm sure."

Mike frowned. "You know," he said slowly, "I really just don't know what our employer would do—I can see them going either way, actually."

Johnny picked his head up off the back of the couch and looked at Mike like he'd suddenly grown antennae.

"Huh? Wow, that's sure not the sense I get."

"Sure, because you have to deal with Livingston. He's a prick. But here's what I see from my boss: he finds my personal life difficult to contemplate, and is in all honesty probably appalled. But he pretty much lets it go, because I'm good at my job, and he knows it."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure that? I mean, why does it even come up?"

"Here's something different about working at HQ versus working at a station. Right now, you hardly ever see your boss. Am I right?"

"Yeah, fortunately. I think I'd blow a gasket if I had to see Livingston more than once every couple of weeks."

"And when you weren't a Captain, it was totally the opposite, right? At the station, we all pretty much live in each other's pockets, so any disputes or tensions get worked out, one way or the other, pretty quickly," Mike said.

"That's mostly true …" Johnny said slowly.

"I know; you're thinking about Marco. But I'm talking more along the lines of tensions with the boss," Mike said. "Captain Stanley always nipped things in the bud, and Len Sterling was the same way. And I'd bet my bottom dollar that you don't let crap hang around in the air between you and anyone in your crew."

Johnny thought for a second. "True," he said. "I've had to talk to two of the guys about some crap. Mostly Emerson, right after he finished his probie time, but also a thing came up with Peters once."

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Perfect Peters? Now that's a story I'd love to hear, but I know, I know—none of my business. I sometimes wish I didn't kind of know half the guys on your crew. Anyhow—what I mean is, over at HQ, we have a happy medium between living in each other's pockets and only seeing each other once a month. And I don't know why, but I think it maybe makes people a little more tolerant of differences that can get in the way at either of the extremes."

"Huh," said Johnny. "I guess I can imagine that. But when does personal stuff even come up with Rhodes?"

"Ah—just had one example this morning. That fire your crew worked last week—the one with the fatality?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, that was a rough one."

"Well, the state needs a cause, of course, so our unit got called in. Two guys from my team did the initial investigation, and Rhodes asked me to put it all together. I told him I couldn't touch it, since I had a close personal relationship with one of the captains who worked the fire. He eventually figured out what I meant. He was annoyed—I mean, how often would that happen, where the last names weren't the same?—but didn't make a big deal out of it. We just worked it out that if there was anything that came up in Battalions 11 or 17, where C-shift was involved, I won't work on it."

"Sensible," Johnny said. "So he didn't know who I was?"

"No," Mike said, "and he very specifically didn't want to know. He just wanted to know what station, and what shift. He actually said not to give him your name. Though with that information, he could look it up if he wanted to. But I don't see him doing that."

"Weird," Johnny said.

"Here's how I see it," Mike said. "He's just a regular guy—a good guy—who's used to things being the way they've always been. He likes things to be familiar and comfortable. So when they're not? He doesn't wish me any ill, but he deals with 'It' in whatever way keeps him most comfortable, and keeps fuss to a minimum."

Johnny nodded. "I can practically hear you saying a capital letter and quotes around that word, 'It,'" he said, making little quotation marks in the air.

"Sounds that way in my head, too. Anyhow—do you see what I mean? I think, for most people, 'It' strikes up a certain amount of ambivalence, but doesn't necessarily inspire instant hatred. Or if it does, it doesn't inspire an instant need to act on their hatred."

"Yeah, well, what about Torrelli and Staib?" Johnny said, arms crossed over his chest.

"I said 'most people,'" Mike corrected mildly.

Johnny blew out a long breath. "Yeah. I know. Sorry. Gettin' kinda touchy."

"But do you see what I mean?" Mike repeated. "I think for most people, it's not worth the trouble to make a big deal out of things like, say, 'It.'" This time he purposely made quotation-mark gestures.

"I guess," Johnny said. "But still—it's probably not illegal to fire someone because you don't like who they're screwing."

Mike snorted. "Eloquently put, Gage. True—it's probably not. But is it worth the trouble? That's all I'm saying."

"I see your point, but all I'm saying is, I'd just as soon we don't have to go there. No trial is still my first choice. Not that we get to choose," he said bitterly.

"I'm with you there, Johnny—believe me, I am. And I wasn't trying to make a big deal about my point; it's just odd enough that I'm less worried about something than you are that it kind of stood out."

"Aw, no big deal, Mikey." Johnny picked up the hand that was holding one of his own, and kissed each finger individually.

The phone rang—it was Mike's line, so he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Howdy, Mike. Len Sterling here."

"Len! How are you? All the guys okay?"

"Everyone's fine, Mike. I'm just calling because I tried you at work, and the receptionist said you'd gone home sick, and that had me worried."

"Oh—I'm not sick—not any more. I just had a doctor's appointment, and so did Johnny, so I took the afternoon off."

"Glad to hear that. Is John doing better?"

"Uh, a lot, but it's still a while till he's back on duty. He's still supposed to pretty much just rest."

"Listen, Mike—I was so sure you were going to be awful sick that I planned on bringing you two your supper tonight. If you don't have plans, could I maybe come by anyhow? I'll take care of everything—get somethin' to throw on the grill, clean up—the works."

"Wow, Len; that's awfully generous. Let me just check with Johnny—he's been really tired."

"I promise I won't keep you up late, but do check with him."

Mike covered the mouthpiece. "It's Len—he wants to bring dinner, and clean up and everything. You up for a visitor? He won't stay late."

"Sure," said Johnny. "Not too many people I could handle, but he's one of 'em."

"Sounds great, Len," Mike said into the receiver. "We appreciate it—things have been real tough for us lately."

"So I've heard—but I also hear the law has some very bad boys in custody, is that right?"

"Yep—we'll fill you in later. What time you think you'll show up?"

"Oh, sixish, I'd say. Give or take."

Mike laughed, knowing that for Len, that could mean anywhere from five till seven thirty. "All right—we'll see you when we see you, then."

Johnny looked at Mike as he hung up the phone. "What time's he comin' over?" he asked.

"Sixish," Mike replied, "with an emphasis on the 'ish,' of course."

"I'm thinkin', actually, that maybe I got a little ahead of myself when I said I could stay awake till bedtime—mind if I crash for a little while?"

"Not as long as I can lie down with you till you fall asleep. C'mon."

~!~!~!~

When the bell rang at six thirty, Mike was startled out of an unplanned nap on the couch. He folded up his newspaper and went to the door.

"Hi, Len; come on in."

"Howdy, Mike. Mind if I set these down in the kitchen? I've got chicken for the grill, and green beans and potatoes all set to go on the stove."

"Wow, that's great—thanks a lot. Here, I'll take it." Mike put the chicken in the refrigerator, and set the vegetables on the counter. "Lemme go get Gage—he's been sleeping since like three."

Len nodded. "Some people heal that way, don't they—sleep it off, just like a sickness."

"That does seem to be how he works," said Mike. "Be right back."

Mike popped into the bedroom, where he found Johnny starting to stir.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Len's here—you wanna get up?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, definitely." Johnny sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Geez. It's like I'm Rip van Winkle or something."

"Whatever works—and I'd say it's working, from what I see."

"Huh? Whaddaya see?" Johnny asked, as he pulled his clothes on.

"You just sat up, got out of bed, and put your pants on without wincing or grimacing in the slightest. And it's only been a week since you cracked those ribs."

"Well, whaddaya know?" Johnny said, stretching experimentally. "I guess things are starting to come together."

"But watch yourself, pal," Mike said, as they headed down the hallway. "Now's not the time to get cocky."

"Who's gettin' cocky? I'm not gettin' cocky! Hey, Len!" Johnny said as he rounded the corner to the kitchen.

"Well, howdy, John. You're looking worlds better than the last time I saw you. And I have to agree with Mike—it's certainly not the time to get cocky. Soon as you start feelin' better, that's right when you're likely to set yourself back a step or two."

Johnny sat down on a stool at the counter. "Well, if you two are gonna gang up on me, then fine. I'll just hafta not get cocky. Not like I was anyhow."

"Why don't I get busy with this chicken," said Len, "if you'll point me to the grill."

"Far corner of the deck," said Mike. "It's self explanatory."

"Well, it's true that those of us who put out fires for a living are often fairly good at getting them started, as well," said Len. "So I'll take your word for it." He took the tray of chicken out to the deck, and returned a minute or so later. "Piece of cake."

Len looked around the house. "You sure do have a nice place, here, fellas. Did it come with one or the other of you, or did you go in on it together?"

"Came with me," said Mike, as he put the beans in a saucepan. "An uncle of mine left it to me. He was a fireman—got me into the business, actually—and left it to me. Well, actually, to any nephews who were firefighters at the time of his death. It was a total shock—I mean, I didn't know he had anything like that in his will, and I was like twenty five, and lived in this crummy, dinky apartment. And then suddenly I was a homeowner."

"So that's what brought you to the fire service," Len said. "I always wondered, actually. You don't really seem like the type."

"Well, it was what I wanted to do. My parents were dead set against it. I actually went to college for a year, just for one last-ditch effort to keep them happy—but I hated it. They pretty much stopped talking to me when I dropped out of school and went to the academy." Mike looked up from the potatoes. "And speaking of people who don't seem the type—what's your story, Len? I have to say, I always wondered."

Len's face grew serious. "Well, now, boys, that's a story for after we've got ourselves around a drink or two. It's … not your usual story."

Mike stopped what he was doing. "Sorry, Len—I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to tell us if it's uncomfortable. Just seemed like a logical question."

"No, no—it's all right. I don't know as how I've told it to anyone before, except my first Captain. And I guess, now that I think about it, I'd kind of like to tell you two about it, if you don't mind hearing. Might be kind of a relief, in a way, to know that two people I trust and respect know my odd story," Len admitted.

Mike pulled the fridge open, and set a beer in front of Len, and another in front of himself, and a soda in front of Johnny.

"Here's to kidneys," Johnny said, clinking bottles with the other two men. "No coffee or alcohol for me for a while, yet."

Mike set the beans and potatoes to simmer on the stove, and leaned on the counter.

Len toyed with his beer, and suddenly downed about half of it in one go, as if steeling himself.

"I did some pretty stupid things when I was young," he began, "but I suppose that's no different a story from most of us."

Johnny and Mike both nodded.

"Guilty," Johnny said.

"Oh yeah," said Mike, nodding his head. "Me too—and don't look at me like that, Gage; it's true. But go on, Len."

"I supposed y'all know that I was involved in, shall we say, alternative ways of living, in the sixties?"

Johnny and Mike both nodded. "Yeah—we'd heard you lived on a commune, or something."

"That's pretty much what it was. Communal living, on a farm, in the middle of nowhere up in northern California. Pretty much ran away from home—which was the middle of nowhere in Georgia, in case you were wondering—when I was seventeen. Hitchhiked across the country, and landed at The Farm. That's the only name we had for the place."

"Anyhow, that was all dandy and perfect, until, guess what?"

Johnny piped up. "You got tangled up with a girl, and things fell apart, and you couldn't stay there any more."

"Got it in one, Gage. Got it in one." Len finished his beer, and Mike set another in front of him. "Summer of 1965. We were twenty. She got pregnant, I wanted to marry her, but she said she didn't believe in that old-fashioned sort of thing. I begged her, on my knees—I didn't want any child of mine to be born out of wedlock. Maybe it was old-fashioned of me. I don't know. But she flat out refused, so what could I do?"

"Not much, I suppose," Mike said. "Funny—some of us want to get married, and can't, and then there's people who can get married, and don't want to. Anyhow—sorry. Go on."

"She flat out refused, every single day when I asked her. And I did—every single day. One day, she got so angry about my constant badgering, that she stormed out into the field to do her work for the day, and was out for a long, long time. Nobody thought a thing of it, until lunch time, when she didn't come in. Now, she was very careful about the baby—made sure she ate right, and quit drinking and smoking grass as soon as she suspected she was pregnant—so folks were worried when she didn't come in for lunch. Except for me—I told them how mad she'd been, and how she was surely just avoiding me. So we didn't go out to look. Not till almost supper time." Len took a long, long drink.

"When we finally went out to look for her, after she didn't show up for her kitchen duties, it took a couple hours till we found her. Dave found her, in the strawberry field, lying in a pool of blood. She'd miscarried, and hemorrhaged, and we hadn't even been looking for her, because I'd convinced everyone she was just mad at me." Len finished his beer. "Excuse me—I think I'll go flip the chicken. Be right back."

Johnny and Mike looked at each other.

"I don't think we're supposed to go out," said Mike.

"No," said Johnny. "Chicken doesn't need flipping for quite a while yet, in my book."

After a minute or two, Len came back inside. "Turns out it wasn't ready to be flipped anyhow." He looked at Mike. "You got another beer in that fridge?"

Mike silently passed a third beer to Len.

"So you probably figured this out already, but she was dead. Had been for hours and hours, by the looks of things. I blamed myself—maybe if I hadn't made her so mad, or maybe if I hadn't convinced people she hadn't come back because she was sulking—maybe, maybe, maybe. At any rate, it was convenient that I blamed myself, because the others sure as hell blamed me.

"So that was it for me and The Farm. And that's when I did the stupidest thing I'd ever done. I ran away from the establishment once, and ended up with heartbreak. So when I ran away from heartbreak, I ended up in the arms of the biggest, most rigid, meanest establishment in the entire United States of America." Len took a hearty swig from his bottle. "Yes sir, I joined the U.S. Marine Corps."

"I went through basic training without a hitch, and three months later—even before my child would have been born—there I was, in Vietnam. I suppose just about everyone knows I was in 'Nam, but I'm guessing mosta y'all assumed I got drafted. But that's not how it was."

Len shook his head. "Now, I'm not going to lay the entire sob story on you fellows of everything that happened over there. Quite a bit of it should just plain stay in my head, and die with me, when that time comes, without ever being let out. But the one piece that's important here, is what my assignment was. I was with a flamethrower unit. Yes siree Bob, I burned shit down, left right and center. Farms, fields, forests, and the occasional village that we were told was empty of anyone but VC. We burned, and burned, and burned. I don't know how much napalm my unit went through, but I can tell you one thing: it was a god damned awful lot."

"And we were so casual about it. Man, you think firefighters have graveyard humor, gallows humor? You oughta try a bunch of Marines who burn everything in their path."

"And then there was that one time—there's always that one time, in a story like this, isn't there? But there was that one time, when they told us the farmhouse was empty, that everyone had moved out already, that nobody was still in there. But it wasn't true. And we didn't bother to check whether it was true. I torched the huts myself, and, well … the rest of that story is gonna stay right where it is now." Len cleared his throat. "And now I honestly believe that the chicken really does need flipping." He slipped back out the back door.

Neither Mike nor Johnny said anything for a few seconds, and they didn't look at each other.

"Did you have any idea?" Johnny finally asked.

"I knew there was something, but …" He shook his head. "No. I didn't know how bad."

"Me neither," said Johnny. "I mean, I know plenty of vets, and all, but …" he shook his head. "Damn."

Len reappeared, and started back in to his story as if he hadn't just left. "When I was done with my tour of duty, I didn't re-up. I'd had enough. More than enough. But I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. I don't know if either of you has ever been in that place—" Mike shook his head, but Johnny nodded vigorously. "Ah, I see there's a story for another day," Len said. "So I camped in the mountains for a few weeks, and tried to think of how I could possibly undo any of the things I'd done. I thought about working on commercial boats—after all, water is the opposite of fire. I thought about working construction—since building is the opposite of destroying.

"And then, one day, I was hiking, and happened to come across a brush fire station. It was the strangest thing—it was the middle of nowhere, and suddenly there was this fire station. And then it hit me—the opposite of setting fires is putting them out. I knew what I needed to do with myself. So I knocked on the door of the station, and asked the guys there what I'd need to do to become a firefighter.

"Two months later, I was enrolled in the academy down here in L.A. I didn't really care where I went—I just went to the place where I could start the soonest. And in 1967, I started my probie year, in a station that I know now was just about the worst possible match for a country hippie like me. I hated it—every single second of every single shift. But I considered it my penance, so I also loved it. If that makes any sense at all."

Mike nodded ever so slightly, but didn't say anything.

"Makes perfect sense," Johnny said, without missing a beat. "But you must've gotten out of the station you hated, though, right?"

Len nodded. "I did. After that probie year, I knew I could do the job, but I didn't know if I could learn to like it. But my first captain—a very smart man, may his soul rest in peace—knew exactly where I belonged, which was not in unincorporated East L.A., at a busy urban station that people fight to get into, but in the hinterlands, at a station that people fight to get out of. They sent me to a nice little station north of Palmdale—up in the hills. And I was there until 93s was built in, what, 1972? And there I've been, ever since. Worked my way up through Engineer, and then Captain." Len sipped his third beer, no longer in a hurry to get the alcohol into his system.

Nobody said anything for a few moments.

"You don't still hate it, do you? I mean, it doesn't seem like you do." Mike said, hoping the answer was "no."

"No. No, I don't. As soon as I got out of the big city atmosphere, I discovered I actually liked the work. I mean, really, really liked it. I went from being a just-barely-made-it probie to, well, whoever I am today."

"A well-liked, highly-respected Captain who, even if he is reportedly a bit quirky, is one of the best firefighters around," Mike finished for him.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," laughed Len, but he was interrupted by Johnny.

"I would. It's not a stretch, either," Johnny said. "And don't try to worm your way out of a compliment that happens to be true."

Len mimed tipping his hat to the two of them. "Well, then, I thank you kindly."

"Did you ever think of giving up?" Mike asked. "I mean, we've all had our moments, but—what about at first, when you were just doing it as penance?"

"No, not seriously," Len said. "Partly because of the penitential factor, and partly because I was just too frightened to start over, pick up a new trade again. Perhaps that was cowardly—I don't know. But in the past few years, I've realized I've become something I never hoped to be." He took a drink from his beer, and Johnny asked the logical follow-up question.

"And what's that, Len?"

"A happy man, gentlemen. And really, who can ask for anything more than that?"

Johnny and Mike nodded their agreement, just as the kitchen timer went off.

"Doesn't sound much like my mama's dinner bell, but let's eat anyhow," said Len.

While they ate, Mike related the rest of their tale, up to and including the news that they would possibly dealing with a trial in a couple of months. As Mike noticed Johnny starting to pick at his food, he did his best to change the topic, while trying not to look like he was changing the topic. The conversation eventually swayed back to news about Len's A-shift crew, Mike's former co-workers.

"I'll tell you, Mike," said Len, "what with Holtz being A-shift's third engineer since you had to leave us, people are sure hoping he starts fittin' in a bit better."

"Why? What's going on?" Mike asked.

"Well, let's just say that boy needs a little attitude adjustment. Just because you make engineer doesn't suddenly make you squire of the manor," said Len.

"Oooh," said Johnny, "sounds like he needs a little pranking."

"Captain Gage, you have a devious mind," said Len, "and I'm inclined to agree with your suggestions on this one."

"I had an excellent teacher, where it came to firehouse pranks," said Johnny. "I'll give ol' Chester B. a call, and see what he might have up his sleeve for an engineer who might just be a bit too full of himself."

Mike shook his head. "And I thought the Captains were supposed to discourage this kind of thing, not start it."

"Attitude adjustment, Mikey. All part of the job," said Johnny, as he dug heartily into his meal.

Mike carefully didn't allow himself to smile like he wanted to—he was just happy that Johnny's attitude had just undergone a little adjustment itself.

TBC